


To Build a Home

by Lecavayay



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Moving On, Retiring gracefully, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5456156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecavayay/pseuds/Lecavayay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn’t picked first-overall this time and somehow that is a relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Build A Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [electrumqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrumqueen/gifts).



> Dear electrumqueen, let’s be real here. This is basically me filling my own prompt so bless you for also wanting this man I love so much to be happy. I hope the following brings you joy, I really loved writing it. :) Happy Holidays!
> 
> Additionally: This was loosely titled “Operation: Make Vinny Happy”. The story starts in the summer before the 2017-18 season when the hypothetical expansion teams in Vegas and Quebec would be up and running and Vinny would be entering the final year of his contract. There is no love for the Flyers in these parts. 
> 
> Title taken from The Cinematic Orchestra’s song of the same name, which was played on repeat until this fic was finished.
> 
> And last, but certainly not least, thank you to believeinafreelove and hockeygal1226 on tumblr for reading over this for me :)

He isn’t picked first-overall this time and somehow that is a relief.

The call comes around five, just after he wakes up from a nap and throws a pre-portioned meal into the microwave. There’s a muscle in his back that’s sore from the gym earlier, something he’ll need to stretch out before bed.

“It’s good news,” Kent says. “Vegas picked you up.”

He lets out a slow exhale and it feels like more than just air escaping. It feels like the first time he’s breathed properly in four years.

“They’ll have someone in touch to get you a place and do some media. I’ve already gotten a few emails for interviews – from Philly and other papers.”

Objectively, his agent’s words make sense but he still shakes his head a little in hopes of settling them.

“Vince? You with me?”

“Yes, yeah. I’m here. That’s all…that’s great. Really great.”

“You bet your ass it is.”

It was a gamble to wave his no-movement clause, a gamble to assume anyone – even an expansion team – would want him after barely playing half a season the past two years. After becoming a shadow of what he once was.

“What about…who else, uh…” he stutters out, not sure how to ask.

“Brad’s still in Anaheim. They traded some picks and a prospect to keep him. He’s gonna win another damn Cup, you know that? Fucking amazing.”

The Ducks had fallen flat in the Western Conference Finals last month, out in five. Vinny thought Brad had been playing with a foot injury, some deep bruising from a blocked shot in the second-round that seemed to really get him. His knee-jerk reaction after the loss was to call. He wanted to buy a ticket out to California and show up at his door and make sure he was okay.

Brad has always been okay, though.

“Are you home?”

The house he’s been staying in is big. It has a sweeping entry with a big light fixture and stairs up to the second floor, more bedrooms than one person could ever need. More than two could ever need, really. It has stucco walls and white tile floors and sprawling glass doors that open onto the sand. He can smell the ocean baking in the sun. It _feels_ like home.

But Kent’s asking if he’s in Montreal, in Ile Bizard with his family. “No. I’m not.”

“Tampa?”

“Yeah,” he says, hanging his head as he circles the kitchen island. “I’ll get a flight back to Philly in the morning.”

“Let me know when you get in, alright? This is good Vince, this is what we wanted.”

Kent hangs up and Vinny opens the Delta app on his phone to book himself an 8am plane.

 

When the wheels touch down just after ten-thirty, Vinny’s chest tightens. He tries to breathe past it, tries to preemptively calm the zing of nerves that shoot straight to his stomach, curdling the two cups of coffee he’d sucked down in the pre-dawn light. The hairs on his arms lift away from his skin and he fights the shiver.

This is the last time he’ll have to come here.

There’s barely anything to pack at his house – a few pictures, his TVs and surround sound system, his bed. He’d lived the last four years like he was ready to run, ready to escape at the drop of a hat. There are a few boxes still packed up in the back of his closet.

His phone _pings_ while he’s standing in the middle of his living room with its dark wood floors and heavy brick fireplace. He curls his toes into the plush maroon rug that lines most of the room and checks the message.

_Vegas, eh? That uniform is gonna look terrible on u._

_At least it’s not orange._

Marty sends back the praising-hand emoji.

Another message comes in from a different number, an email notification following close behind. _Press at 12:30 – details in email._ He pulls it up and reads through a few lines that are highlighted for their apparent importance.

_Be appreciative of Philly even though everyone knows you hated it._

_Make sure to thank Vegas GM for taking a chance on you._

_Look excited when you talk about starting over in a new city._

_Do NOT mention anything about retirement._

_Not sure if they’ll bring up Brad but obviously be prepared._

“Obviously,” he huffs. As if he’d really want to spend his last season in the National Hockey League fielding questions about…all that.

He pockets his phone and heads to the kitchen. He’ll have to separate the pans he actually uses from the pots he’s never touched. Filled cabinets and cluttered countertops aren’t comforting, they don’t hide the fact that he’s alone. If he can leave it behind, he will.

He opens the refrigerator and stands in the light that falls out. It’s empty except for a sad bag of lettuce and a moldy red pepper and six bottles of water. He throws the food away and cracks open a water on his way up the stairs to his bedroom.

The first sip is freezing going down, trickling through his chest and down into his stomach, settling like lead. The room is cold too, hardly lived in except for the book he left on the nightstand and the suits in the closet and the leftover clothes in the dresser.

_His last season._

The words hit him as his brain finally catches up to his earlier train of thought. It startles him and his stomach clenches around something hard and immovable deep in the pit of it. His fingers curl around the bottle and the crunch and crinkle of the plastic is loud. He licks his lips, tasting the way the words settle in his mouth. _His last season._

Some people don’t get to choose. Some people have it ripped away from them in one bad hit, one final tweak to an aging body that just can’t recover anymore. He’d always hoped it didn’t come to that. He’d always hoped he’d have a choice.

He smiles, then. It’s slow and takes a while to reach his cheeks and up into his eyes, but he feels it when it does – spread all across his face.

His last season and it’s not going to be here.

The smile breaks wider as he pulls open the first drawer of his dresser. It’s full of Halloween orange and black. He’s got t-shirts and shorts and polos with his name and number – a number that never really belonged to him, always felt alien on his back. One by one, he pulls them out of the drawer and drops them on the floor. Sweatshirts and workout gear and more t-shirts pile up by his feet as he tears through the second drawer and starts in on the third. He kneels down to dig the clothes out faster, as fast as he can, and when the fourth and final drawer is empty he rests his forehead against the dark wood and laughs.

 

//

 

ESPN.com 7/2/2017

_…For Lecavalier, who’s never settled farther west than Tampa, the transition to the Western Conference should work out just fine. “I’ve actually got a few friends out there now. They love it. It’s a different style for sure but they say the fans are great. I’m really excited to get out there and start building something.”_

_One of those friends is ex-Lightning teammate Brad Richards, currently centering the Anaheim Ducks third line. “It’ll be nice to beat him four times a year instead of just twice.”_

_Nothing like some good old-fashioned competition._

_“He’s got one more Cup than I do, I’ve got to even up the score before he nets another one.”_

_Anaheim is the odds-on favorite to win this upcoming season._

 

//

 

“Welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. Lecavalier.” The woman is tall and blonde and has very bright red lips. She’s got a clipboard and a thick notebook clutched in her arms like a lifeline. “We’ve got a car waiting outside to take you to your hotel for the weekend. The Venetian is stunning.”

She turns to walk away from baggage claim and Vinny follows, wheeling his suitcase along behind. A commercial for Cirque de Soleil plays on one of the big, overhead screens. They pass a row of brightly blinking slot machines.  

“The team’s hired a few real estate agents in the area to help all of the players find the best fit for the upcoming season. You’ll meet with Sarah today so she can parse out your preferences and then she’ll show you around the area tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sounds great.”

Another ad starts to play, this time for Penn and Teller’s magic show. One of the other baggage carousels groans to life. It’s all rather loud but no one seems to mind.

“If you have any questions, feel free to call me,” she says, handing over a business card. _Hayley Collins, Human Resources._ “There’s a full schedule and directions to the arena in your room, but the highlights include a dinner with upper management tomorrow night and tickets to _Ka_ at the MGM Grand. We’re also able to put you on the guest list to any of the clubs or lounges on the Strip. Calvin Harris, Diplo, and Avicii are all in town this weekend.”

They exit the airport through a set of automatic doors and Vinny is hit with the first blast of desert heat.  

He breathes it in, dry air mixed with the exhaust of the airport shuttles and cabs advertising showgirls from their roofs. It’s missing the salt of the ocean but it’s close enough for now. The mountains cresting on the horizon are new. Maybe he’ll grow to find them beautiful.

Hayley stops next to a simple black towncar and the trunk pops. Vinny loads his suitcase and slides into the back.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Lecavalier,” she says, shutting the door and giving the roof a little pat.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket as the car takes off into traffic. He twiddles it, flips in over, twists it between his fingers.

_Nice article on espn. Happy for u and your freedom. Welcome to the west!!_

The text had come in late the night before while he was staring absently at the ceiling of his bedroom in Philly. He knew it was from Brad before he’d read it – the little notification light blinking blue instead of red. It was a stupid modification he’d made while Vinny was asleep or in the shower or laying in the sand the last time they saw each other. Just before Anaheim.

He hasn’t replied yet.

The Strip is lively, even in the heart of the afternoon. People rushing up and down the street, in and out of casinos that sparkle when they catch the sun. It’s not as enchanting in the daylight but he watches the hotels pass anyway – a pyramid, a castle, New York City, Hollywood, Paris, the famous fountains dancing to music he can’t hear. There are more new things than places he remembers, which isn’t surprising in a city that changes as quickly as Vegas.

The Venetian is a sweeping property that sits back from the Strip, ornate in every sense of the word. Vinny’s never been to Venice but he’s sure the architects did a wonderful job of capturing the essence of it. Both city and hotel seem like easy places to get lost in.

“Here we are,” the driver says, pulling to a stop behind a row of cabs. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

“Thank you.” He offers a tip and slips back out into the heat.

He wheels his bag through clusters of slot machines and rows of green felt tables, following the signs that point him toward hotel registration. He waits behind a family of five until a woman with hundreds of tiny braids in her hair smiles at him from behind the opulent check-in counter.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m checking-in, reservation for Lecavalier.”

“Could you spell that for me, please?”

He does and watches her type in the letters with ease, despite her long fake nails. They’re painted the same gold as the flecks in the counter. He wonders if she did that on purpose.

“We have you in a suite for two nights, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. If you take a left and follow the wall around, the elevators will be on your right,” she says, laying two room keys in front of him. “You’re on the sixteenth floor in room 1652. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“No thank you.”

“Have a wonderful stay.”

Room 1652 has a wall of tinted windows framed in sheer white curtains billowing in the air conditioning. They overlook the parking garage and the flat roof of some other part of the hotel, nothing special. He unpacks his suit and toiletries before starting the shower, cranking it hot enough to steam up the mirror.

He checks his phone, eyes drawn to the most recent conversation thread.

_In Vegas for some stuff, you in Cali by chance?_

He hits send.

 

//

 

He knows better than to buy a house in the situation he’s in but he can’t stop himself from looking at the big two-story ones they pass in the Las Vegas Country Club – stucco walls and curved doorways and palm trees in the yard.

“Monterey isn’t the flashiest neighborhood in the Country Club,” Sarah says as she turns left into the complex. “But the condos are small and simple and well within the price range you asked for. The distance to the arena and practice facilities are also a huge selling point.”

They pass an older couple walking a pair of tiny lap dogs, their hair white and skin tan.

“There are five pools and some of the units face the golf course. There are three gated entrances that are staffed twenty-four-seven, the closest is the Karen gate, which I’ll show you on the way out.”

Sarah turns left off the main road and parks in front of a set of apartments. “3201 is here on your right. It’s only been on the market for about a month. It’s a one-bedroom, one-bath with an extended kitchen and washer-dryer in unit.” She continues talking as they head up to the front door. “It is pet friendly and the rent includes full maintenance and club membership.”

Vinny spots a brown nose pressing against the window of the condo across the sidewalk, the dog’s got floppy hound ears and a wild tail knocking around in the curtains. He smiles at it before following Sarah inside.

“The carpet in the living room was replaced last year and new countertops were put in around the same time. The previous owners upgraded the bathroom about five years ago so all of the fixtures are modern.”

The living area is nothing exciting, plain white walls and beige carpeting. There’s a sliding door that leads to a small fenced-in patio lined with bright green shrubs.

“There is a walk-in closet in the bedroom and a nook that could be set up as an office or a home gym.”

“Is there a workout facility on site?” he asks, stepping into the small bedroom with the same beige carpet.

“Yes, the clubhouse has full amenities. It locks after six but you’ll have an access card that will let you in at any time. That card also gets you into the pool areas.”

There’s no room to host guests or have a team cookout or share the space with anyone other than himself. It’s sparse, smaller than anything else they’ve looked at today. But it’s bright and the white tile in the entryway is nice. He likes the way it feels. “I’ll take it.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I’ll sign a full 12-month lease.”

“Well okay then,” Sarah says with a wide smile. “I think I can have the paperwork drawn up by tomorrow morning.”

While she locks up, he takes a picture of the place and sends it to Brad. _Home Sweet Vegas._

_Mine’s better._

 

//

 

He’s had the address for a year now, knows it belongs to a beachside house propped up on stilts with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the sunset every night. He’s gotten pictures of the waves and golden sand from a chair on the balcony, Brad’s bare feet propped up on the railing just to prove it’s actually his.

He’s had the address memorized almost as long, which makes it easy to thank Hayley and the driver for dropping him at the airport on Sunday and skirt security in lieu of the rental car line.

Anaheim’s only a four and a half hour drive. He’ll get there before the sun goes down.

 

The house is dark with storm shutters clamped around the windows and the front security light flickers on when Vinny goes up to the gate. He knew Brad was back on the Island, that he wouldn’t be on this coast until much closer to September, but he needed to see what kind of home he could make in a year.

Brad’s done well for himself.

There’s a smaller gate off to the side that opens to a path between his house and the one next door. Another security light flicks on as Vinny walks all the way to where the purposefully rugged-looking stones turn into sand.

He kicks off his sandals and keeps walking.

The beach is almost as dark as the house and the water of the Pacific is even darker still. The roll of the waves cresting on the sand is rhythmic, comforting. He stands just out of reach of the water, where the sand is still dry, listening.

He was surprised when Brad signed with Anaheim. The distance, the type of division he’d be in, the way they built their teams and played the game. It all seemed out of character, especially after his back injury in Detroit and the abysmal season he had in Boston. If Vinny had been a betting man, he would’ve put money on Toronto next.

Anaheim wasn’t even on the radar.

He’d gotten the text just before the news broke and he could tell Brad was excited. He could tell he was going to be happy out here on a beach that wasn’t theirs, dipping his toes in an ocean that was often too cold to swim in even on the hottest of days.

It looks enough like home, he thinks.

Vinny steps forward as a wave washes ashore, the icy water spilling over his feet. He doesn’t know what to expect from Vegas. Almost every team has been an expansion team once. Almost every team has to start with a mismatched group of aging hockey players and young guys who didn’t live up to their hype. It takes time to build a franchise, something that can’t be done in the first eighty-two games.

He strips off his t-shirt and walks deeper into ocean, the sand mushing under his feet like mud. His toes are cold enough to be numb but the water climbs higher – his ankles, the dip below his calf muscles, the middle of his shin. He stops walking at the first lick against his knees and turns to face the house.

It would be nice to watch the sun set from the balcony every night with a bottle of wine between them, bare feet propped on the railing just like the picture Brad sent. Nice, but not perfect.

The next wave crests higher and Vinny dives into it, lets it surround him and shove him toward the shore. He swims, fighting against the current and the continuous ripple of the water. He swims until the dark house with the boarded up windows is just one of many lined up along the beach. He swims until his feet can’t reach the ocean floor, until he’s forced to tread water just to breathe.

That’s when he lays back and lets his feet rise to the surface, his arms stretch out prone to his body. He floats. He floats in the cold water of the Pacific and doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.    

 

//

 

Nothing feels better than lacing up his skates and stepping out onto the ice for the first time in Scorpions’ gear – desert gold and black looks _great_ on him.

It’s absolutely electric being somewhere people want him, being on a team that has room for him, skating next to guys who look at him and don’t resent the number of zeros on the checks he gets for sitting in the press box.

Because he’s not in the press box.

It’s opening night and he’s on the ice. The weight of the A on his jersey feels good, the 4 on his back feels even better, and the crest on the front is one he’s proud to wear. They’re probably not going to make the playoffs, probably won’t do much better than sixth or seventh in the division, but Vinny’s going to be damn sure they win this game tonight.

They’re playing the Flames and he lets the Canadian anthem wash over him, the red from the flag on the big screens overhead reflecting brightly in the fresh sheet of ice. He smiles into one of his gloves propped up on the knob of his stick.

He’s so glad he gets to have this one last time.

 

The locker room is blasting some terrible top 40 rap music after their decisive 4-1 win over Calgary. Vinny notched an assist but it’s not important. They won. As a team of misfits and discarded parts, they won.

“Table at Hakkasan tonight, boys!” David Legwand shouts over the music.

“Fuck yeah!” someone else yells.

It’s been easy for Vinny to brush off invitations for the past four years, when he knew no one actually wanted him around. But Vegas is different. He got an assist and his team won and he wants to go out and fucking celebrate.

“You in?” Legwand asks, stripped down to just a towel.

“Yeah, I’m in.”

“Us old guys gotta stick together, eh?”

Vinny accepts the fist-bump Legwand offers and continues peeling the tape off his socks.

 

His nice black button-up doesn’t need to be ironed but it’s still well after midnight when he gets to the MGM Grand and finds his way to the club. The line to get into Hakkasan is absurdly long, winding through turnstiles like a Disney World ride. Vinny wonders if Legwand put all of their names on some kind of VIP list.

Maybe he just emailed the roster to a club promoter and hoped for the best.

“Name?” a petite woman at the host stand asks.

“Lecavalier.”

“Are you with a group?”

“Yes, we’ve got a table.”

“And what name would that be under?”

“Legwand?” he guesses.

She scans through her tablet until she spots the credential she needed. “Someone at the bottom of the stairs will be able to show you to your table, sir. Have a nice night!”

Once he’s entered the winding entrance of the club, he can immediately feel the deep bass rattle in his chest. A group of girls in tall heels and tight dresses stumble past him giggling, phones out snapping pictures. He takes his own phone out and types a quick text: _do the guys drag you to clubs in Anaheim or are we too old for this nonsense now?_

The stairs that lead down to the main floor feel like the entrance to a cave and they open up into a massive cavern full of people and techno music, colorful lasers and a smoke machine adorning the mass of humanity on the dance floor in front of the DJ – “Eva Shaw,” Prusty had said back in the locker room. “She’s fucking gorgeous and look who I’m married to.”

Surprisingly, that’s not who Vinny spots first. “Naz, hey Nazem!”

“Vinny!” His eyes are wide and glassy when he looks over from the bar that’s nestled into a nook near the stairs. “Leggy thought you bailed.”

“Where’s the table?”

Nazem points off to the right. “You gotta follow the thing around.”

The _thing_ is a sloped walkway that’s packed with people trying to shove their way onto the dance floor.

“Bud, just hop over the back,” Legwand says once Vinny’s close enough to see the large booth full of his teammates. He’s definitely way too old for this.

“I’m pretty sure they frown upon that sort of thing.”

“Do it the fuck anyways. It’s gonna take you an actual year to get through all that.”

So, illegally settled between Legwand and Matt Martin with his hair in a ridiculous man bun, Vinny pours himself his first drink of the night and chugs half of it in one go. His phone buzzes and he barely feels it against his leg.

_Enjoy it while it lasts xo_

It’s good advice and the little _xo_ on the end makes him feel lighter than air.

“Girlfriend?” Legwand asks, nudging Vinny’s shoulder.

He locks his phone and slips it back in his pocket. “No, just a…no.”

“Shots all around!”

God, the last time he took a shot was Brad’s 33rd birthday party. Legwand stands on the booth and lifts his glass high. “To going down in history tonight, boys, and being the Las Vegas Scorpions the next generation has to live up to.”

As far as toasts go, Vinny’s drank to far worse.

“So no girlfriend, eh?” Legwand asks, slumping back down in the seat next to him. “That surprises me. I mean, you’re a nice enough guy. The nose is a little honky but guys have worked with less.”

“You really know how to flatter someone.”

“Imagine my surprise when I landed my wife.”

“Yeah, no idea what she sees in you,” he chirps.

“She hates Vegas.”

“The weather or th--”

“Mostly the debauchery and general ‘den of sin’ vibes it gives off. I told her it’s just going to be a year and she agreed to suck it up.”

“You’re retiring at the end of the season?”

“Aren’t you?”

That startles a laugh out of Vinny. “Yeah. I am.”

“I mean c’mon. I’ve got like, grey hairs growing in my beard. I can’t have a grey fucking playoff beard.”

“Marty St. Louis would beg to differ.”

“Okay, fair. But he was also old as dirt.”

“I’ll let him know you said that.”

“Please do.”

Vinny pours himself another drink with the dregs of the vodka bottle on the table. “It’s kind of poetic to end up here with you, a bit, no?”

“What, going one-two in the draft only to end our careers in the middle of the desert together? ‘Spose it is.”

“1998 feels like a long time ago.”

“It _was_ ,” Legwand says with a laugh. “And look at the kids they’re drafting now. They would’ve fleeced us back then.”

At seemingly the same time, they catch sight of Nazem on the dance floor showing off some moves better left for the bedroom.

“Someone should take him home,” Vinny says.

“I’m on it,” he replies, slamming the rest of his beer. “Captain duties. We should get lunch sometime, though, catch up on the past twenty years.”

He’s already pushing into the crowd before Vinny can shout a response but lunch sounds nice. Having a friend on his team is _nice_.

 

//

 

Lunches become a thing.

Not just with Dave and sometimes his wife, but with the whole team. Vinny doesn’t catch on until almost a month into the season that it’s happening. That after practice or a team meeting or a video session, someone will invariably come up and ask if he’s hungry.

He’s a hockey player. He’s always hungry.

But Vinny figures it out when it’s Nazem’s turn.

“You…look like you’re in pain,” he says once they’ve looked at their individual menus without talking for a solid three minutes.

“I do?”

“A little, yeah. Is everything okay? We don’t have to eat.”

“No, it’s fine.” He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

A waiter comes over to take down what they want to drink and Nazem goes back to reading the menu. Vinny’s got his mouth half-open to say something, _anything_ , when the dam breaks.

“Okay, no. Everything is not okay.” He sets the menu down and sits up a little straighter. “Leggy said you’d be the best person to talk to about this so, um, can I ask you a question?”

Vinny tries to imagine a situation he’d be better suited to dealing with than Dave. It’s immediately worrisome. “Sure,” he agrees with unease.

“How do long-distance relationships work? Like, I know the _idea_ of them makes sense but they just…in execution, it seems a little lacking.”

Vinny holds his breath, begging for something else to fall out of Nazem’s mouth, something _less_. He fights against the disgusting churn in his belly, hopes it isn’t spread all over his face.

“Have you ever had one?” he continues. “A long-distance relationship?”

And that’s simple enough. “Yes.”

“Was it awful?” Nazem deflates, shrinking away from the table.

“No, it wasn’t awful. It was…the best we could do.”

“Because you got bought-out?”

The obvious answer is to say yes. To lie and keep as much of his life out of whatever it is Nazem’s looking for. He doesn’t know why Dave would think he’d be suited to deal with this. He’s really rather not suited to it _at all_ and he’s almost furious at the thought that Dave knows something he hasn’t out-rightly offered up himself. How Dave could possibly assume something so personal, so close to his heart, after only knowing him for a few months.

There have been texts though, little things he’s picked up and read in the locker room, half-dressed in or out of his gear. Things he would’ve been much more vigilant about shielding from nosey teammates when he was younger. When there was more at stake.

“No. It was because he got traded.”

Nazem’s head snaps up, eyes wide and lips thinned to a taut line. Vinny thinks he pales a bit and immediately starts worrying about catching him before he hits the restaurant floor. “Seriously?”

“…Yes.”

“ _Who?!_ ”

Vinny stiffens, jaw clenching.

“Sorry, no. No, don’t answer that. I was just…it’s a player for me too, is what I meant to say. A teammate. _Ex_ -teammate.”

“Okay.”

They both breathe when the waiter returns with their water and takes down their food order, even though Vinny’s all but lost his appetite.

“Did it last?” Nazem asks. “Your, uh, relationship. Are you still together?”

“It’s complicated.” Which, it’s not, but it’s easier to say it is.

“Fuck.”

And no, this is all going terribly wrong very quickly. Nazem’s too young to be this jaded. “What me and…what my relationship is, it’s not the same as yours, okay? It’s not a perfect situation and it wouldn’t work for a lot of people. But that’s what happens. Things get weird and you have to either bend with it or break. We’ve been bent for years, which is hard. Maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But we’ve never broken.”

“How do you know if it’s broken?”

He wishes so badly that he knew, that he could give some universal indicator so Naz would know whether to move on or dig his heels in and fight. “Do you still love him?”

“I do,” he says, eyes dropping to the ring of condensation his water glass is making.

“And does he…”

“I, uh, I want to believe he does. But I don’t know how to know for sure, right? I haven’t seen him or really been with him for months. It was so easy when I saw the look on his face when he said it.”

“Yeah. That’s the hardest part. Learning to trust they mean it in a different way,” Vinny says. “Learning to hear it in how they say certain things or how they send texts or the inflection of their voice when they tell you certain stories. Or sometimes you can feel it when they slam you into the boards and steal the puck right off your stick. Cause that’s where it happened, right? That’s where you fell in love with them for the first time, out there on the ice. And every time you see them across from you in a different jersey, a jersey you used to wear together, you remember the times when it was perfect. And that’s enough.”

“Doesn’t it _hurt_?”

“More than anything.”

“And I’m sure you’re about to tell me it’s worth it.”

Vinny licks his lips before quirking them up into a half-smile. “For me, it is.”

Nazem swirls the ice in his glass, listens to the cubes clank against one another. “Thanks.”

“We go to Toronto in a couple weeks.”

“I know.”

“How long have you had it circled?”

Nazem finally smiles. “If I say it was the first thing I looked for when the schedule came out, is that embarrassing?”

“Not at all.”

Their food arrives, big sandwiches on toasted bread. Vinny eyes Nazem’s pile of fries. He should’ve gotten fries.

“Which date’s circled on yours?” Naz asks, still chewing a bite.

“November 7th.”

 

//

 

The seventh is a Tuesday and it’s unseasonably warm in Anaheim. The heat is almost shocking after the recycled air conditioning of the plane and Vinny feels the first line of sweat drip down his spine before they even make it to the bus, parked just across the tarmac.

It’s not going to be an easy game, not with the way the Ducks have been playing, but they’re coming off a couple wins in a row so everyone’s feeling positive. Vinny’s got the spark that always comes with a red-circle game – games that mean something beyond goals and points in the standings.

“You good?” Dave asks as they board the bus.

He tosses his bag in the overhead bin and slides into a seat. “Yeah, Leggy. I’m good.”

He stays good as the team sets up in the visitor’s room, splitting off to do what they always do before games. He’s good when he tapes his sticks and starts stretching out his legs and back. He’s good when it’s finally time to start getting dressed.

When he stands to check the tightness of his skates, he notices his phone is blinking blue.

_We could drop the gloves b4 opening faceoff just to set the tone, what do u say?_

“Your boy?” Nazem asks quietly.

_Youre an idiot._ He sends the text before setting his phone back in his stall. “Maybe.”

Naz steps back with his hands raised. “I’m just saying I know that look, so.”

Vinny makes a weak attempt at a facewash and goes back to strapping on his pads. His phone vibrates one more time before warm-ups.

_Quack, quack._

There’s a chicken emoji at the end of it and having never needed to text someone a duck, Vinny assumes that’s as close as Brad could get. It’s kind of cute.

“Put it away, Lecavalier. Let’s go!”

 

The excitement of their previous wins and the adrenaline of scoring the first goal only lasts so long. The Ducks destroy them with four unanswered tallies in the second and a fifth in the third. Brad scored one of them and Vinny did his best to push down the zing of excitement at seeing him put a puck in the net. Some years he’s better at it than others.

The team sulks back to the dressing room after the final buzzer and takes a well-deserved verbal thrashing as they strip out of their gear. Vinny checks his phone before heading to the showers – nothing.

“I think some of the guys are gonna go hunt down a few beers after this,” Dave says. “You in?”

“Uh, no. Sorry. Not tonight.”

He’s tense. Even as the hot water beats down on his back and steams up the room, he’s tense. They don’t always see each other after games but Vinny thought, with how long it’s been, he thought tonight wouldn’t be one of those times. He knows they talked about it but Brad can be forgetful. After a blowout win like tonight, it’s hard to fault him.

“Leave some for the fish, dude. Don’t you know California’s in a drought?” Prusty teases.

He shuts off the water and wraps a towel around his waist, dripping all the way back to his stall where his phone finally has a notification.

_Meet you there_

It’s not a question. So Vinny dries and dresses and slings his bag over his shoulder to go hail a cab.

 

The house looks different with the windows open, warm light spilling out. It looks comfortable, like someone could really live there. The front security light flicks on and the gate springs to life not long after.

Brad’s waiting at the front door, already in loose sweats and a soft-looking Ducks’ t-shirt. Vinny can tell his hair’s still a little wet. He smiles and lets Vinny in. They don’t say anything when he drops his bag at their feet and steps into his space, wraps his arms around his shoulders and breathes him in. They’ve been talking their whole lives with words that don’t always say the things that need to be said. And right now, no word could possibly describe the feeling in his chest when he has Brad in his arms. Settled, maybe. _Home._

“It’s been too long,” he whispers into the side of Brad’s neck.

“It has.” Brad’s hands are warm where they’re spread across his back, holding him just as close. “I opened a bottle of wine.”

“What are we celebrating?” he asks.

“Twenty years is a long time, don’t you think?” Brad reaches up to trace along Vinny’s cheekbone, tuck a strand of nothing behind his ear. “But maybe I’m just happy to see you.”

Vinny lets himself be led to the kitchen where Brad pours two glasses of red from a bottle with a dusty label, which means it’s one he’s been saving. They take their first sips in silence and Brad trails his fingers along the skin on Vinny’s left hand. He likes the countertops in the kitchen – dark against the bright white of the cabinets and tile floor. The house in Tampa needs new countertops.

“Can you stay the night?”

“No.” He means it to sound apologetic, like he would if he could, but instead it sounds routine.

They can never stay.

Brad’s smile is surprisingly warm and he takes Vinny’s hand, walking him away from the nice countertops through the sprawling living room with plush couches and out the sliding door that opens onto the back deck. “Then we should make the most of the next few hours.”

It’s obvious that the stretch of darkness in front of them is the ocean - the slapping of its waves against the sand and the smell of salt that’s not quite the same as the Gulf. Brad turns off the lights in the living room and the sky brightens, stars appearing out of nowhere.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Vinny sips his wine. “It’s nice.”

They settle into separate chairs but Vinny pulls the one Brad’s in closer, close enough to tug one of his hands into his lap and hold it there.

“We’re leaving right after the game on the twelfth,” Brad says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We have tonight, at least.”

“At least.”

The ache of the game starts to settle into Vinny’s bones and he feels himself drifting toward sleep, breathing slowly with the tide. Brad laces their fingers together.

“I bet you can’t see the stars like this in Vegas.”

“No.”

“What about Tampa?”

Vinny licks his lips, tasting just a hint of wine. “If the neighbors turn their porch light off, there’s some.”

“I thought you were going to sell that house.”

“I did.”

“But you said…”

“I bought another one. Closer to the beach.” He had spent two summers looking for the perfect one. With windows overlooking sand and a kitchen that faced west to watch the sunsets and more bedrooms than two people need. “For us. When it’s time.”

He’d tried to convince himself he didn’t need it, that they’d be happy wherever Brad ended up or somewhere back in Canada close to family. But it was stupid to pretend like Tampa wasn’t always going to be the place he’d run to.

“I had the master bathroom redone this summer and there’s a beautiful chandelier in the entryway. I really think you’d like it.”

Brad takes his last sip of wine. “Finish your glass.”

When he’s done, Brad takes it from him, sets both of them on the little table to his right. “C’mon.”

Vinny follows him through the house again, down a hall, to the last room on the right. Brad turns in the doorway to wrap his fingers around the back of Vinny’s neck and he feels how warm he is this close, how the heat is practically rolling off his skin.

Brad licks into mouth, gently at first, and Vinny pulls him closer by the small of his back, hands sliding against his t-shirt, rucking it up to expose skin.

“Is this okay?” Brad asks softly, drags his thumb along the column of Vinny’s neck.

He catches his eyes, holds his gaze. “Yes.”

Brad lifts his arms to let Vinny slip his shirt off, turn him around to mouth at his shoulder and the knob of his spine, listen to him sigh. It’s always slow like this, like they have all the time in the world. Like they have forever.

Vinny works at the buttons of his own shirt and Brad moves to kiss at the new skin, brushing the cotton from his shoulders until it falls at their feet.

They move together, closer to the bed, and Vinny notices when Brad steps into the sheer light of the moon, barely half-full tonight. Notices the scar from an off-season back surgery and a bruise along his hip that’s just begun to fade.

He reaches out, pulls him back into the darkness to kiss him again. And again. Deeper each time until they’re both breathless. Until his fingers twist in the hair at the base of his neck and Brad clutches at his arm, tries to push closer.

The sheets are cold when he lays Brad down, covers his body completely with his own.

And here, just the two of them, he thinks anywhere could feel like home.

 

//

 

_Five Months Later_

 

They don’t make the playoffs, but no one really thought they would.

Vinny takes his time cleaning out his locker, watching the kids toss everything into the proper bins and making plans for the summer. He sees Naz and his linemates huddled around, passing out bro-hugs. They’ll all be back in September.

“Hey,” Naz says, coming over to sit down next to him.

“Where’re you headed now?”

“Thought I might stay in Toronto for a bit. I know a guy.”

Vinny raises his eyebrows.

“He wants to take me to Bermuda.”

“How romantic.”

Naz leans over to bump Vinny’s shoulder. “Thanks for this year. I, uh, I needed someone like you here.”

“You would have figured it out.”

He shrugs, picks at something on his thumb. “What are you gonna do? Being a free man and all.”

Vinny’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “I’ve got a couple calls to make before my flight tomorrow morning. And then it’s on to the rest of my life, right?”

“Does it feel weird?”

“I don’t know.” He had always hoped he’d get to choose, that he wouldn’t leave the game he loves sour. That it wouldn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth. The end is inevitable now, but it doesn’t sit heavy in his gut like he thought it would. “But it’s okay. It’s time.”

“You’re a good guy.”

“You don’t have to suck up to me anymore,” he says with a smile.

“Vinny, what the fuck!” Dave yells from the door, breaking the moment. “Let’s get the hell out of here! There’s at least two bottles of champagne with our names on it. Come on!”

“That’s my cue.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder just like he always does.

“Hey, uh, what about your guy?” Naz asks. “You work out in the end?”

“I told him the only ring I want is a Cup ring. He told me he’d think about it.”

The Ducks are still in it, first seed in the West and a President’s trophy to their name. It won’t be an easy road but he’s got a little faith.

“Lindsey’s making burgers.” Dave comes over to sling his arm around Vinny’s shoulders. “And we can eat as many as we want without feeling guilty.”

His phone buzzes again. “I’ll meet you there, okay? I’ve gotta make a call.”

“Make it quick! I can’t promise there’ll be any left!”

He waves, already dialing the number. Brad picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, Vince.” He sounds happy.

“Hey.”

“How’s it feel?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Maybe it’ll feel different then.” He leans against the cinder brick wall of the tunnel, painted desert gold.

“When are you heading home?”

“I, uh…” He pauses to think, so used to second-guessing what people mean when they ask. But Brad knows. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Then I’ll see you in six weeks.”

“What?” He’s pacing now, walking along where his sticks used to stand on game days. “What do you mean?”

“It’ll take about that long to finish out the season and then…together or not at all, right?”

They’d promised each other way back when they slept in bunk beds in the middle of Saskatchewan, back before they knew they’d even make it to the NHL. They’d promised to go out together. That no matter what else happened, no matter what teams they played for or how many Stanley Cups they won, they’d retire together. He wasn’t sure Brad remembered. “You sure?”

“Yeah, babe. I’m ready.”

He sits on the bench facing the clean sheet of ice that will be broken down before the day is done, put away until the new season begins. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, yeah.”

“I’m going to win you the Cup.”

“I don’t care.” He’s laughing, almost too happy to form words. “I’ll still love you either way.”

They sit in fond silence then, Vinny tracing the ridges of the bench with his fingernail. Someone drops something in the hall behind him and a wash of voices stream out of the open locker room door.

“I’ll see you at home,” Brad says, quiet, like he’s making sure only Vinny can hear him.

“I’ll be waiting.”


	2. Post Credits Scene

Nazem listens to the waves, loves the way he can almost sync his breathing to how they ebb and flow onto the white sand beach. It’s early enough that the sun isn’t at its hottest yet and there’s still a soft sea breeze that rattles the palm fronds near the house they’re renting for the week. He’s taken a nap on the lounger every morning since they arrived and he feels another coming on, baking in the sun seems to have that effect on him.

But someone steps in front of him, casting a shadow he can see even with his eyes closed. He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and smiles at the margarita being offered to him – salt around the rim and a little pink umbrella.

“Bit early for these, isn’t it?”

Joffrey laughs and settles onto the chair, knees bracketing Nazem’s hips. He runs his hands along his stomach and up over his chest, they’re cold from the margarita.

“It’s vacation,” he says.

Naz licks a bit of salt off the glass and takes a sip. It’s tart in a way that pre-bottled mixers usually aren’t. “I’m impressed.”

He runs his fingers from Joffrey’s knee to the edge of his black speedo. He’s already a shade darker than when he arrived and it’s only been two days. He’s a little leaner than when Naz had left for Vegas in September, too, but that’s what the end of a season will do. He’s got a whole summer to bulk back up.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Joffrey says.

“Yeah, me too.” And he means it, he really does.

Joffrey leans over to fit his mouth against his, pressing a deep kiss there. Naz tugs him back in for another. And one more after that.

“Maybe when you’re done with your drink, I’ll show you what else I have planned for today,” he says, lifting himself off of Naz’s hips. It’s a shame really.

He turns around to watch him walk back through the sand to the house, not at all embarrassed to enjoy the way his thighs and calves work as he goes. “Can I get a hint!” he yells.

Joffrey doesn’t turn around to respond but he does slide his speedo off and leave it on the porch.


End file.
